You And I
by wrestlefan4
Summary: Hermione&Harry decide to give Ron quite the birthday gift-Harry Potter himself. Little do they know, a night of sating lusts will change all of their lives and the lives of others forever./SLASH&HET.Multi-pairings. Harry,Draco,Ron,Snape,Hermione,others.
1. Chapter 1

Title: You And I

Pairings: MANY. Harry/Draco, Ron/Hermione, Harry/Ron, Snape/Hermione, mentions of Lucius/Snape, Harry/Ginny. Maybe others.

Rated: M

Warnings: Slash and Het. Sexy scenes. Possibly some language. Will probably not get happy endings for all, if any, of the characters. NO character death.

Disclaimer: Everyone belongs to J.K. Rowling, not me even though I certainly wouldn't mind.

Note: This is a chaptered fic.

You And I_  
><em>

_You villain touch! What are you doing? My breath is tight in its throat,_ _Unclench your floodgates, you are too much for me._

_~*#*~  
><em>

Harry sat on the edge of his four poster, curtains splayed, watching the boy next to him, more than listening to him. Ron was lying in bed, on his back, his covers pulled up around him with Scabbers the fat gray rat resting on his chest. Ron stroked the rat's back affectionately as he went on speaking, his story only punctuated by the soft snores of the other Gryffindor boys. Harry nodded now and then, and occasionally murmured an 'uh-huh' or 'mmhm' to propel Ron onwards in his tale. Ron was so wrapped up in it, he probably wasn't even hearing Harry, but that was okay if he wasn't.

Harry was busy taking in each feature, usually familiar and taken for granted, but in the moonlight made something different, wonderful, and curious. The pale light caught Ron's red hair, the newly washed fluff partially tumbled over his forehead, curling over his ears, and splayed out in messy little cowlicks onto his pillow. His eyes were wreathed in lashes that looked like pale fire, and his skin seemed to glow, the curves of his cheeks still soft in boyhood but the line of his jaw and chin beginning to hint at something more. His mouth was his usual wide smile, even when he spoke, his lips framing his teeth with pale pink. Freckles were peppered delicately over his nose, and Harry felt his cheeks burn warm as he wondered, just where else Ron might have freckles.

Scabbers rolled onto his side lazily, gave his whiskers a twitch, and let Ron get to petting the fuzz on his round belly.

"Harry...did you hear me, Harry?"

Harry blinked, and startled slightly.

"Of course." He answered, but Ron had noticed. His smile deflated, his eyes glancing down at his pet, as he ran a fingertip along the pale, bald tail.

"You weren't listening, were you?"

Harry climbed off his bed, and onto Ron's, curling his legs beneath him, and thumbing his glasses up his nose.

"No." Harry confessed, unable to lie to his best friend, even if it meant sparing him the let down. "I wasn't. I was...looking." Harry chewed his lip a bit, as Ron's eyes held his, seeming a little confused as to what Harry might have been looking at. As if to confirm, Ron glanced around, seeing nothing curious or out of place. "At you." Harry added, an amused smile tugging the corners of his lips.

"Me?" Ron's eyes widened. "What happened? If Fred and George replaced my shampoo with Frizee Folicle's Every Hue Hair Dye-"

"No, no!" Harry assured him, laughing. Harry reaching forward to muss Ron's already mussed hair. "It's fine, Ron...red as ever it was."

"Phew!" Ron sank bank onto his pillow, heaving a sigh of relief. He looked up to the ceiling for a moment, then hoisted himself up onto his elbows, looking at Harry once more, quizzically. "Then why were you looking at me?"

What was Harry to tell him? Harry wasn't even sure of it himself. If he wasn't awkward enough as Harry Potter, he was beginning to grow into a Harry Potter who was interested in things that confused him even more than potions class, and made him feel more uncomfortable than that vein must feel—the one which was always throbbing right in the middle of Uncle Vernon's ugly purple forehead.

Harry's tongue darted out to lick his lips, as he thought of the way best to answer Ron. At last he abandoned the method of weighing options and consequences, and then in true Gryffindor fashion, decided to abandon reason and just plow on ahead and be out with it. If Ron had stood up through everything they'd been through together thus far, he couldn't possibly be ran off by the curiosities of a hormonal teenager; one Harry Potter.

"I...I was curious, Ron. And the truth is, well we've been through so much together, and I was wondering if you feel as close to me as I do to you. I was also wondering, if you-"

"Of course Harry! You're my best friend!" Ron sang happily, all smiles again. "The best mate a guy could ever hope to have!"

Harry smiled too. He moved closer to Ron, and Scabbers scurried away to find less crowded sleeping arrangements.

"I was also wondering," Harry went on, picking up exactly where Ron had interrupted, as if there had been no interruption at all. "If you realize how attractive you look, with the moonlight through the window. I was wondering-

Harry moved even closer, swinging one agile leg over Ron's body, as if he was mounting a broom for Quidditch practice.

"Attractive? Me?" Ron was too thrown off by Harry's words, seemingly to notice Harry's position.

"If your hair is as soft as it looks...and if your lips are even softer. I was wondering if you would have that look of wide-eyed surprise, should I find out about your lips by adventure, and I was also wondering...Ron...if your nose is the only part of you speckled with little brown dots."'

Harry leaned down, his belly pressing to Ron's, their chests breathing together, only the thin material of their nightshirts to separate their skin. Ron's eyes grew wide, finally processing that Harry was on top of him, their lips a mere breath away from touching. Ron swallowed, a small squeak of uncertainty the only reply he could properly form as his wits scrambled about his head.

"Ron?" Harry said, quietly. "I don't want to kiss you, if you don't want me to. I wouldn't want to ruin our friendship." Harry looked through the twin circles of his spectacles, eying the curve of Ron's lips, and taking in the scent of Ron's breath, tinted with chocolate and toffee that they'd shared earlier. Harry found it very tempting to see just how those sweets tasted now, kissed from Ron's lips, and licked from Ron's tongue. Their lips brushed; not even a proper kiss. Ron squeaked again, and looked completely terrified.

"Harry!" Ron finally got enough mind back to get the name out, and then there was more. It just sort of tumbled out of him, the way those slugs had done when his hex a few years prior to Draco Malfoy had backfired, due to a busted wand. "Harry, no! I don't know—we can't—what are you getting at? I really like girls, Harry. I'm sorry, please don't be upset with me, I like you, I honestly do! But I don't LIKE you. You're not really pretty Harry—not that you're not er—well-what would I tell Mum and Dad? I mean, Mum likes you but I don't think she'd really go for...Oh! What about Ginny? Ginny's just crazy about you, Harry! She really likes you and um...she has freckles too." Ron finished, looking so upset and confused that he might be on the verge of tears, screaming, or both.

Harry backed away, unseating himself from Ron's body, reluctantly. Ron pulled the covers up close to his chin, looking uneasy.

"Ah...wow." Harry rubbed at the back of his messy hair, awkwardly. What had he expected, really-for Ron to be curious also? For Ron to want to explore as much as he did? For Ron to see glimpses of Harry in a light that spoke of possibilities, the way Harry sometimes saw Ron? Ron was neither curious, nor lustful for his best friend. Both of them were now blushing furiously, faces redder than Ron's hair. "I don't know what came over me...I must've been hexed." Harry added, nodding decisively. Ron's eyes narrowed, and he scowled.

"I'm gonna kill Fred and George if they think this was funny!"

Harry climbed off of Ron's bed, fixing his glasses.

"I wouldn't let on to them. Don't give them the pleasure of letting them know it got to you. If neither of us get upset about it, then they'll hardly find reason to find if funny. Besides, nothing happened, did it?"

Ron thought this over, his eyes showing the slow and careful processing of Harry's words. Harry felt a bit bad for it, but after all it wasn't a lie that would hurt Ron. He had to come up with something to brush off what had just happened. He didn't want things to be awkward, and he certainly didn't want Ron to be afraid Harry was going to grab his knee under the table at breakfast, or brew an aphrodisiac in potions class and slip it into Ron's pumpkin juice.

Ron nodded, finally.

"Right. Let's go to sleep then." Ron gave a great yawn, and flopped back onto his pillow, his easy smile back in place.

Harry slid under the covers of his own bed, and pulled his curtain closed. He lay awake listening to Ron's breathing grow soft, as the red-head fell asleep quickly. Harry however, did not. He was kept up late into the night, still wondering about Ron's lips, and dreaming up places to trace freckles.

~#*#~

_Five Years Later_

Harry had the money to live lavishly, had he wished to, but he did not. Most of his life had been spent in a cupboard under the stairs, and so his small apartment above the pub he now owned in Diagon Alley was spacious enough for him. It contained all the essentials: most importantly, a large and comfy bed to sink into when home from his travels, and secondly, a kitchen just the right size for a bachelor. Harry after all did enjoy a good meal when he was home long enough to have one. The counter left just enough space for a sink and a small space for prep. His favorite appliance was a Muggle refrigerator that Mr. Weasley had enchanted and given to he and Ginny as a wedding gift. Any time an item in the fridge was running low, it was automatically refilled. It was also spoil proof: No more sour, clotted milk, or hairy cheese left forgotten in the back corner.

His home was cozy and it was all Harry and Ginny had needed, and now, just Harry. His marriage to Ginny had been short-lived. Both of them had agreed to break it off, after a long talk and a united understanding of why. Ginny understood, and Harry wondered if she might've even suspected the reason before, but had hoped that her love for Harry could have been enough.

After their breakup, Ginny had decided to travel. Fred and George had issued threats and stayed angry with Harry over it all, until Ginny had finally convinced them that they had indeed agreed on the split, and that Harry had not broken her heart. He had crushed it, but not shattered it. Ginny had grown into a strong woman, and willed herself to carry on. She still loved Harry, and that was exactly why she could allow herself to let him go.

All Harry had ever wanted to do was to lead a normal and happy life, and marrying Ginny, owning the pub, living commonly, seemed so very blissfully routine and welcoming, after all the business with You-Know-Who. But life tended to throw curve balls to Harry Potter, and so his picturesque existence he had imagined had changed, though not so drastically as it had when he had turned eleven.

Harry still had the pub, still lived in the same place he had shared with Ginny, and kept many of the same routines. The only ones that were changed was the lack of her presence, and the shape of the bodies that lay in the very bed where Harry and Ginny had shared their first passions as a married couple. That bed now saw broader shoulders, leaner hips, chests laced with hard muscle instead of dolloped with soft pink mounds. The sounds that the walls heard in the early morning hours, after the pub was closed, were masculine and pitched lower, grunts and heavy groans instead of breathy sighs and flimsy feminine whimpering. Now in the mornings, after it was all over, the sheets smelled of nothing but pure man. Often after waking, Harry would stuff his face into the sheets and pillows, and inhale the heady scent of leftover sweat, spent sex, and raging testosterone. All of that alone was often enough to get him worked up into quite the quivering, horny mess, and all before breakfast and with a pub to run.

Tonight was one of those nights.

Harry's partner for this night—a regular whom more often than other contenders, lay wrapped in Harry's cool sheets—just as he did now. The blond had already fallen asleep, snuggled up to Harry's side, their feet wrapped together. Harry idly stroked the soft, pale hair, and watched it filter through his fingers and fan out against an equally pale forehead. The skin was still damp with sweat, and the slightly-darkish crescents beneath the blondes closed eyes were silvery-wet. This man had a tendency to cry when he slept—just silent tears that crept out from beneath his lashes, usually just enough just to dampen the skin, sometimes more.

He often suffered from nightmares, but Harry understood, and was always there to offer him comfort when he awoke in fear or panic. The blonde would either accept, wilting into Harry's arms, or he would push Harry away unwilling to compromise what was left of his pride, which he often overcompensated for with arrogance. It only depended on what sort of mood this man was in, but Harry had found that he could deal with either reaction, just the same. Harry didn't love him, and his frequent guest did not love him back, but in each other they were able to find what they needed for just one night at a time: attention, comfort, understanding, and of course, there was the sex, which was always satisfying on a more basic and biological level.

Sometimes Harry would stay up and watch him, and wipe his tears away, because no matter what had once been between them, no one deserved to shed that many tears, and especially not alone.

Most would not understand the reasons or the odd boundaries of their relationship, but _they_ did, and that was all that mattered. In the morning, the blond would go home to his wife and his two-year-old son, feeling hopelessly detached from them. Like Harry, the blond had married in hopes of finding that same sense of normalcy, but his coldness and aloof ways had chilled the bud of his relationship before it could really bloom.

Harry continued to stroke his hair, and look over the pale skin that was left bare to him. From the waist down, his odd partner was tangled in the sheet. Harry's emerald eyes moved over the lines and muscles of the other mans neck, chest, shoulder, and his curled arm—his gaze briefly stopping on the ghost of the dark mark that the man had taken as a foolish boy. The mark no longer burned in blackest ebony, but the faded outline and emblem were still clear enough to forever brand his beautiful milky skin. Sometimes when Harry woke to the mornings after, he'd catch his pale partner sitting on a corner of the bed, staring down at the damned mark, his eyes leaking, vacant, and tormented as the mark triggered the same flashbacks that haunted his nightmares.

Harry pulled the sheet up further, covering the toned torso, the taught nipples, the curled arm, and the dim but ever present mark. The blond gave a shudder and breathy little moan as the movement of the cotton fabric tickled the naked planes of his flesh. Harry adjusted his own pillows, on which he had been propped up sitting, and sank down further, his eyelids feeling heavy. He gave out a yawn, and closed his eyes, enjoying the cool night air wafting in from the open window. He opened them again when he heard the soft rustle of feathers.

Harry cracked his eyes open, to see a blurry shape that was the familiar owl of Hermione, now Weasley instead of Granger. The plumed messenger perched on the post at the end of his bed, in its beak was a letter. She opened her wings and fluttered over, dropping the letter onto Harry's chest. He propped himself up once more, grabbed his glasses from the stand at bedside, and hung them onto his ears and nose. The envelope was opened in one rip, and the letter when unfolded, bore Hermione's distinct and familiar handwriting.

_ Dear Harry,_

_It's been too long since we've last been together! Ron and I will be coming for Ron's annual birthday celebration at the pub. I'm prepared to make this particular birthday very special for Ron, as I've lately gotten a confirmation to something I suspected all along. Ron speaks of you often, but lately, he's spoken of you in his sleep and I was quite amused to listen. I'm sure you would have been more than amused, if you had heard exactly what he was saying, or rather, begging and whining for you to do to him, Harry._

_Don't look so shocked. _

_I always knew there was more to your friendship, although I've yet to decide if the two of you simply had unrequited desires, or had in our years at Hogwarts, acted upon each other in experimentation. _

_Of course, Ron wouldn't ever tell me. He won't even admit to saying such things whilst sleeping, but that doesn't take back the fact that he DID say them. Maybe you would have also enjoyed the way he blushed—hot and deep crimson when I asked him such questions. You should see the way he's fawning over me lately, thinking I might be angry or hurt at him for the things he didn't (did) moan out to you._

_No Harry, I'm not upset. I know you may be surprised, as I just might have been prone at a younger age, to become offended easily. However, I'd say we've all matured since then, and in fact there is a stronger urge which cancels out the jealousy that first rose up in me when I knew. As I said, I suspected as much of you and Ron when we were children and teenagers, and to be honest, I might've had fantasies of my own about the two of you._

_Maybe I still do._

_Do you have any idea what we could possibly give Ron for his birthday?_

_I certainly do._

_I think he might like Harry Potter, doing marvelous, dirty things to him._

_In fact, I think you may like it too._

_All My Love,_

_ Hermione_

_P.S.: So would I. _

Harry's breath caught in his throat, and he almost choked on it. He read over the short letter again, the words sending a tingle twisting down his spine, and heat settling into his groin. He folded the letter and lay it on the stand next to his bed, and lay his glasses on top of it. Hermione's owl flapped out of the open window, and into the inky night. Harry closed his eyes, imagining Ron's birthday gift—Harry plowing him through the feather mattress. He imagined baring each inch of Ron's pale, freckled skin, teasing and pleasing all of Ron's most sensitive parts—lips, nipples, the head of his cock, the tight little secret between Ron's toned cheeks...Harry moaned out lowly, turning his head to the side and partially muffling the sound into his pillow.

The sleeping blond next to him stirred, thrashing a bit. The sweat of panic wet fair skin and plastered the short blond locks onto the sleeping man's forehead. He cried out—a sound of fear that hung somewhere between a plea and a sob. His thrashing increased, his legs further tangling in the sheet that was growing damp with his sweat and sticking to him like a spiders ensnaring web. Harry reached over, and shook his partner until his eyes flew open: gray irises awash in tears. A trembling hand went immediately to his mouth to keep a sob from escaping, but it was to late to shut it out completely and the sound was so horrible, that it felt like an ache.

"Shh..." Harry soothed. Comforting Draco, despite how the two got on as children, since then seemed like the right thing to do. As a kid Harry had never taken the time to look past Draco's attitude and meanness, but as an adult Harry had come to realize that 'tough guy' and 'bully' are often nothing more than masks.

He pulled Draco closer, and this was one of the times when instead of tugging away, Draco curled into Harry and let himself be held as he wept out the burning tears from his all too real nightmares. Draco rarely spoke in detail of the things that haunted him, but Harry could only imagine what sort of darkness Draco had pulled upon himself when he, as a young and stupid boy, as many boys are at such an age, became a Death Eater and servant of Voldemort. Harry and many others knew that Draco's family had been tortured—and he only assumed that a dark wizard—no, a dark _demon—_cruel as Voldemort had been, would no doubt have made the boy watch such horrors. Draco's forearm was not the only part of him that bore dark scars. Some of them couldn't be seen, for they were branded onto his young mind and sharp memory, and there they would remain until Draco could deal with them properly: perhaps, forever.

Harry stroked Draco's platinum hair, watching and feeling helpless, as the tears continued to pour over Draco's face, and smear onto Harry's bare chest. There was nothing he could say or do to really help, but nonetheless he would try, when Draco needed him to.

Draco sniffed, and shuddered. Harry pulled a bit of the tangled sheet free, and used a corner to wipe Draco's dripping nose and dab the many tear trails and puddles off of his face. Draco's stone-colored eyes looked wearily at him.

Draco had been horrified the first time this had happened: the first time he'd awoke Harry with his nightmares and crying. He'd tore himself out of bed and gathered his things hastily, snapping at Harry when he tried to ask questions, and heading for the door looking a mess in his half-on clothes. Harry had stopped him, however, and Draco saw that Harry was concerned, not cold, smirking in arrogance, amused, or snarling to Draco that he had gotten what he deserved. Concern—true concern in Harry's brilliant green eyes had been the last thing Draco Malfoy had expected to see.

Harry had not convinced Draco to stay that night. Draco was too rattled not only from his dream and his emotional undoing, but from Harry as well. The second time it had happened however, Draco allowed Harry to comfort him much like he was doing now. In an odd sort of way, Harry's fingers playing in his hair, holding him close, reminded Draco of his father. As a little boy Draco had often woke up with nightmares—none of which were as horrible as the ones he bore now—and Lucius would always appear in his room, and sit on the side of the bed. Draco would crawl into his lap and his father's protective arms would curl around him, and Lucius would stroke his hair until Draco would calm and lull back into sleep.

Draco closed his eyes, but opened them immediately with a little whimper when on the backs of his eyelids flashed the vivid memory of his father on his knees, bound, broken and bleeding from lashes upon lashes, his blond hair stuck to his shoulders and back and dyed a dripping ruby. Lucius tried as he might to hold back the yelps and screams, but Draco could see them shuddering inside of him, Lucius' muscles strained and trembling, his lips stained with blood from repetitively biting on his tongue. Draco was not as strong as his father, and with each blow to his father's abused flesh, it was Draco who sobbed out for him—it was Draco's punishment that Lucius' had begged to take upon his own body. His boy did not get off freely, however, and had been forced to watch until he had been driven nearly mad by it the torture and abuse.

Harry's fingers kneaded Draco's tense shoulders and knotted back, and started up some mundane conversation in a low tone, in attempt to distract Draco from his lingering torment. Harry could feel Draco's muscles slowly loosen, and his breathing begin to come slower. They both fell asleep, Draco's arm flopped over Harry's torso, his head resting on Harry's chest, as Harry held him.

In the morning, Draco was more like his old self. He complained about Harry's bed being lumpy, and then whined about his back and ass hurting from the fucking—which he didn't complain about at all as he was taking it. He made a big deal of limping around the room to gather up his clothes, and so slowly put them on, feebly fumbling with the buttons.

Harry thought to himself, and not for the first time, that Draco was quite the big baby. It was a trait of Malfoy's that had never ceased to annoy Harry during their Hogwarts years, but at some point thereafter, it had become something Harry could put up with. Draco pouted at Harry's back, as Harry put tea on and spread jam onto his toast. Harry could feel the cool gray eyes, and sense Draco's expression.

"Right. Suppose I'll be going, then." Draco said, moving towards the door and lingering there, watching Harry turn to face him. Harry leaned back against the counter, wearing jeans and no shirt. His tongue traced one edge of the toast's crust and came away sticky with dripping jam. Draco lingered near the door, his hand on the knob. Harry raised an eyebrow, it quirked upwards over the circle of his glasses. Draco was usually off as soon as he was awake and dressed. He'd never shown any interest in sticking around, but of course, Harry hadn't ever really asked him. It didn't seem like sharing breakfast together was really in the scope of their...whatever it was. Harry had to admit, that maybe it was a bit rude for him not to ask. Draco must be hungry, after all, when Harry awoke the morning after a good romp, he was always famished.

"Draco, would you like some-" Harry felt bad for not offering, but Draco moodily snapped a short reply, cutting Harry off.

"No."

Draco closed his hand around the doorknob, hesitated a few more moments, and then with an offended sniff and upturned nose he was gone in the air of arrogance that was typical.

Harry finished his toast and jam, poured his tea, and moved towards the bedside table. He blew at the curls of steam wafting up from his teacup, snatched up the letter Hermione's owl had delivered last night, and went to his desk. Harry read over the letter twice more, and finished his tea. He pushed the empty cup aside, found a piece of parchment, picked up his quill, and began to write back.

~*#*~

Note: _Please don't forget to review. Anything you like, don't like, if I'm OOC please let me know. Reviews=encouragement to continue onward with stories. Thanks so much!_


	2. Chapter 2

Harry had read Hermione's letter over and over again, growing more and more eager as the date of Ron's birthday approached. He could hardly still believe that he was in possession of such a letter. Harry loved Ron as deeply as a friend can. They'd been through so much together. Over the years he had still kept deeply a flame of curiosity burning for his redheaded counterpart, and her was the fantasy ready to be fulfilled.

Harry had spent many a day down in his pub, drifting off into fantasies of what Ron's birthday would be like—limbs tangled in bed, burning wet flesh, moans of desire, and he'd find himself lost and horribly hard and being shouted at by customers who was sure something was quite wrong with him. His nights were spent jerking himself to the daydreams, lying propped against his pillows, sheets and body soaked with sweat, writhing beneath the vivid and erotic yarns of his wild imagination and surging libido.

One night Harry had dragged Draco up to his room even before all the patrons and drunks were cleared from the bar, or the employees were dismissed for the night. In an unusual display of unbridled need, Harry seemed to be barely restrained from attacking the blond. Harry's fingers grabbed hastily at Draco's fine garments, tearing things in the process. The pale wizard was stunned at Harry's behavior, and was caught somewhere between being offended that his exquisite wardrobe was mistreated, and a kind of pride that he truly hadn't felt but had only masqueraded for some time—that he made Harry want him so badly.

In fact his judgment was misplaced. Harry's desire for Draco had been usurped by his desire for Ron, and his fantasies couldn't get him off in the way he needed. Harry was beside himself with the need to fuck someone senseless. He had never felt so out of control, and he just had to have this or he was going to go mad with it before Ron and Hermione even appeared on his doorstep.

Harry backed Draco to the bed, laying hard kisses to Draco's soft lips, clicking their teeth together eagerly. Harry's tongue delved deeply into Draco's mouth, as his hands roamed over Draco's naked frame, the color of fine porcelian. The passion twisting and writhing in Harry's combustible body surged through him and seemed to be transferred to Draco as well. Harry was an intense lover, but now the passion was more than intense—it was edging in on extreme. It was exciting and spoke of all sorts of things Draco dare not think of. Harry's head was bowed, his mouth latched onto one of Draco's hardened nipples as he worried it with his teeth and tongue.

Harry was usually the dominant. Draco's general attitude of superiority and his air of dominance—usually in his childhood and teen years, and even sometimes still misplaced in bullying—was not the complete landscape of his personality, by far. Harry had learned later in life, that Draco hid behind such things, attempting to appear ways he wished to be perceived rather than they way he thought his real character would appear, should he fail at his defenses or—a rarity—allow them to be let down. Harry was Draco's escape from his own mind-games. When Draco was with Harry in these moments, he could be vulnerable, weak, less than what was expected of him; he could be _real _if he wanted to. Sometimes, it was still hard to let go, but Harry was usually able to coax it out of him, and the sex would be a mere undertone to how good it felt to let go of such things and to be broken down into himself.

Harry's name built in his throat, choking Draco with the need to vocalize it in the weakest of tones. It was his natural instinct as a Malfoy to fight against it, to swallow it back, and suffocate on it until it could no longer be held back. Harry's teeth grazed Draco's nipples which were bruising the color of ripe grapes from the amount of delicious suckinging Harry was doing to them, and the way he pulled and tugged at them with his teeth. Draco's back arched up from the matress, his mouth open in a silent cry as his fingers gripped Harry's shoulders and his short nails bit into the blades. Draco's eyes rolled listlessly, his sweaty head tossed back onto the pillows, as Harry's hand roved downwards, nails dragging over Draco's belly and leaving pink trails against his skin. Harry's hand brushed against Draco's cock, which made the blond arc up again and this time Harry's name whined pitifully from his lips. It sounded sinfully wonderful to the both of them. Draco shuddered, his own desperate need vocalized serving to only further turn him on. He writhed beneath Harry whining, his cock twitching against Harry's fingertips as they hovered, but did not grasp, or tease, or tug. Draco's hands moved up Harry's neck and tangled into the wild black hair, eagerly shoving Harry downwards, needing something to pay attention to his needy member. If not Harry's hand, then his mouth would be greatly appreciated, though in their sexual exploits it was usually Draco who used his mouth—and usually ravenously, swallowing all of Harry's thick cock deep into his throat without so much as his eyes watering as he suppressed the reflex to gag on it.

Harry paused here, and lapped at Draco's twitching head. Harry closed his eyes and groaned out at the eager pre-release dappling his tongue and smearing his lips—he wanted it to be Ron's, to taste what he had wanted to taste for so long. Harry nuzzled into the hard flesh, licking up and down the shaft. Draco's hands were painfully tight in Harry's messy hair, all sorts of plaintive cries and needy whines coming freely from his head which was tossed back onto the pillows as his body writhed.

"Harry!" Draco begged, completely desperate. "P-please!"

Draco's hips bucked up, his flesh wanting to be enclosed in the hot wetness of Harry's mouth. Harry sat back for a moment, and watched Draco panting against the sheets, his silvery eyes hooded, his pale skin gleaming with sweat, his whitish hair stuck to his forehead. Doing this to Draco while Harry thought of and burned for Ron, wasn't really right. Draco was beautiful and desirable in his own way, and they did have an odd sort of connection and need for one another that neither of them really cared to discus, and until Hermione's owl, that had been good enough for Harry. He had been sufficiently pleased with having various men wander in and out of his life, with Draco being the specific one who would always wander back to him.

Harry leaned forward and pressed his lips to Draco's. A warm tongue met his sticky lips, Draco kissing him wantonly to taste himself upon Harry's mouth. That sent a shiver twisting down Harry's spine, followed by another when Draco's nails dragged down the back of his neck and Harry groaned into their mated mouths. Draco's strong legs wrapped around Harry's waist, pulling him closer. Harry parted their kiss and slid his fingers past Draco's swollen lips and into his mouth, where the blond sucked them as eagerly as he would suck Harry's cock—which twitched madly in response to the expertly swirling tongue.

"F-fuck Draco."

"Yesss..." Draco hissed, as Harry removed his fingers from Draco's mouth, and buried them now into the tight heat that would soon be strangling Harry's aching cock. "Fuck Draco. Fu—uck..._yes, _Harry_._"

Draco arced up as Harry's fingers stretched him and prodded that place inside him that made him want to explode. Soon after Harry's thick length was buried deep into Draco's body, and the both spiraled up and up until their climaxing cries mingled and Harry's heavy load filled Draco and left him satisfied.

Draco could have purred, if he was the type to do so, as he wrapped his sweaty body in the cool feel of Harry's cotton sheets.

Harry cleaned himself up with a corner of the sheet, and then flopped down next to Draco. The pale blond was watching him closely, in fact, more closely than usual. Harry ran his fingers through his messy black hair, a habit that never served to accomplish anything.

"Good?" He asked.

"Yes." Draco nodded. "Always. Do you really have to ask after what you so clearly do to me—or do you only enjoy over-inflating your ego, Potter?" Draco smirked.

"We're back to "Potter" now are we?" Harry shoved Draco's shoulder a bit playfully. They were bothy laying in bed, facing one another, chatting and teasing like they might have been old friends. It served to make Harry think of Ron again—to miss him—as they used to do this very thing on a near nightly basis when housemates. Only, they never had happened to do it naked after sex.

"No." Draco said quietly, reaching out to trail the tips of his fingers over the muscles in Harry's arm. "I rather prefer Harry, now."

Harry swallowed a lump that was building up in his throat. It wasn't abnormal for the two of them to talk a bit after their romping—but not like this. There was something different in Draco's words, and the way he said them, and the touches were...well it was all a bit off, Harry thought. Draco seemed to be showing him a different sort of affection, and Harry couldn't really place just how it was off, but it was.

"Is...everything alright, Draco?"

"Better than usual, actually. The nightmares...they've been a bit better lately. I've gotten more sleep than usual, and...yes, things are better."

Draco had over the course of their relationship—if it could be called that—become more open with Harry than he usually was with anyone. However there were still things that Draco was too ashamed of to tell even Harry. Draco had embarrassingly showed up on Harry's doorstep drunk out of his mind more than once—however, Harry had little reason to suspect Draco of having any sort of problem. Anyone could indulge too much from time to time, and Draco did not make a habit of looking unkempt or reeking of alcohol. In fact, he never even drank when he came into Harry's pub. He was there for the the owner alone, and although his hand often itched to hold a tumbler or bottle, and his mouth often salivated for the horrible strong taste—he didn't do it. He had kept from Harry the fact that he was rather too deep into a bottle of fire whiskey far too often, usually at his home, as he had no desire to share this particular fall from grace with the world. Draco had only sought out the drink at first in some sort of effort to relieve himself of the dreams that plagued him like dark festering boils in his midnight mind.

However he had found that he was the sort of person who once started drinking could not stop until he was an unconscious heap. Such things were very unbecoming of a Malofy, but they happened still, because Draco had no idea how to deal with his problems. He had very little experience in dealing with things on his own—he had always had Daddy to take care of things for him, because Daddy had once been an important man whose name alone could often sway people into decisions that would benefit a bratty child who didn't always have the confidence in his own skills. But Daddy? Father Malfoy was larger than life for the majority of Draco's young existence. Then once at Hogwarts, he had Goyle and Crabb to further take care of things for him. Even Snape had made Draco's life easier, Snape favoring the boy as a Slytherin and son of one of his only close friends. Draco rarely had to do much for himself and when confronted with a heavy task on his own—he was terrified.

In his head, against those unrelenting, demonic dreamscapes, there was no one to help him against them. There was only Draco, and he found over and over again that he was too scared, and too weak. He had known these things all along, but for many years he had been able to hide his massive shortcomings. After taking the mark, there was really no more wearing that mask when he looked in the mirror. All he had seen since that day was what he really was, and the adjectives that came to him over and over again were things like _failure, pathetic, disappointment, coward._

"That's great." Harry smiled at him, and Draco found himself wanting Harry to lean in and kiss him—just a quick kiss of affection, rather than an impassioned one of lust. But Harry did not. Draco moved closer to him, and rested his head against Harry's chest. He closed his eyes when he felt the familiar fingers swirling through his hair. That was nice.

"Are you going to ask me to stay for breakfast tomorrow?"

Harry was taken a bit aback, at that. He remembered that last time he and Draco had been together, he'd offered Draco toast or something—but Draco had put his walls up and left.

"Er...sure, I guess so."

"Good, because I...I think I'll stay, this time." Draco wrapped his arm around Harry's torso, his eyes beginning to close a bit with the approaching cloud of sleep. "I do like toast." Draco added, as an afterthought. Harry's fingers toyed around with the soft whitish-blond locks, his fingers moving down to graze the rounded top of Draco's ear—which as always, drew a shiver from the Slytherin. Draco could tell Harry some of his darkest and deepest thoughts, and yet, it had taken him all this time to simply stay for breakfast. Harry yawned, and pressed his cheek to the soft locks atop Draco's head. Very soon, they were both asleep.

_A/n: If you would like this story to continued, please leave me a review, even if just short. The first chapter only had one review and I was a bit disappointed. I just like to know if people are reading or if I'm doing this for no reason. I hope if some of you are reading, that you're enjoying so far. _


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